


Together

by Mousewrites



Category: Disney Cartoons (Classic)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Anger Management, Angst, First Kiss, M/M, Military, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-30
Updated: 2015-08-30
Packaged: 2018-04-18 01:13:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4686698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mousewrites/pseuds/Mousewrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Donald comes over for their weekly game of checkers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Together

Donald was yelling again. At himself mostly, I think. His temper is terrible, and I've never really known what to do about it. So I just stood there, hands stuffed into my pockets, waiting him out. He had worked himself into quite a frenzy, his raspy voice spitting out incomprehensible words, one foot kicking at the air in punctuation. The checkerboard lay on the ground, the pieces scattered across the room. White feathers flew from his head as he jerked in anger.

I blew one of the feathers back up as it drifted near my head.

"Hey, Donald, buddy... maybe you should calm down," I said finally, wincing as his voice broke on a string of what I was nearly certain were bad words, although I couldn't be sure. Before Donald went into the Navy, his list of curses had been short, and I could always tell which he was using by how long the word was. But now...

Now he cussed like a sailor, strangely enough.

My words did little to calm him, however, and I sighed. Only one thing for it. I edged around him, getting to the kitchen without a pause in his tirade. The bucket was on the counter, a ring of water still dampening the tile. The only time I bothered to put it away was when he was at sea.

The water hit him full in the face, stopping his tirade mid word. He froze, bill open, foot in the air. Water dripped from his bill into his mouth, and his flat tongue curled around a few drops. I could hear him breathing hoarsely.

I set the bucket down and moved in front of him, my hands out and empty. The wrong word could set him of again. I laughed, nervously. "You ok, now?"

His pale blue eyes turned to me, the black of his pupils glittering. For a moment anger continued to burn, but as his eyes focused on me they lost that madness. His foot slowly lowered, the webbing trembling slightly. He shook himself, water flying out of his feathers as he fluffed. I put my hands up to cover my face, but ended up soaked anyway.

He looked at me, and at the bucket. "Thanks, I guess," he said, his voice more grating than normal. He cleared his throat, looking around. "I... uh, I didn't break anything, did I?"

I shook my head. "Na, everything's fine, but we're going to have to set up the checkerboard again. You, um, want something to drink?" I motioned to the kitchen. Water dripped down my ear, and I shook my head to get out. My ears flapped wetly.

"Sure. Sure. I'll get a pop or something," he said, retrieving his hat from where it landed, perched on the edge of the china cabinet. He moved slowly, and I could tell his back was hurting him. The swinging door almost caught his soggy tail feathers.

"Donald?" I called, and he popped his head back though the door.

"Yeah?"

"Bring a mop, will ya?"

"Sure. Sure. I can do that." He smiled at me, but his eyes were tense.

I picked up the room as well as I could, plucking wet feathers from the window sill and the table, my shoes sliding on the wet floor. My gloves were soaked.

Donald brought the mop, and we spent a few silent moments cleaning up. He was quick and efficient with the mop; his years swabbing decks had made him a professional in a way I never could have been. Back when I worked the steamboats I fumbled constantly, and I lost more than one mop over the side when a sudden pitch or roll sent me sliding. No, this little black mouse was not cut out for the life aboard the water.

But Donald... Donald was at home on the water. Took to it like a duck, as the old adage goes. Less ironic, and more cliché, I suppose, but that's the way it was. Just like I liked cheese, and Pluto liked chasing sticks. We were all exactly the way we should be. Someday I'd marry Minnie, and we'd raise little cheese eating mouselings, and Donald would finally manage to woo Daisy, and they'd start a brood of their own. Mice with mice, and ducks with ducks, just as it should be.

As it should be.

I hated how it should be.

Donald put away the mop and bucket, and we sat down again at the checkerboard. I sipped the glass of pop he brought me, eyes widening as it burned down my throat. "Donald!" I said, sputtering. "This isn't pop!"

"Sure it is," he said, sipping his drink. His eyes half shut and he made a little hum of pleasure. "Its pop... with a bit of backbone added. Why, Mickey, are you telling me you're still a teetotaler?"

"You know I am!" I very carefully didn't touch my pocket, where a round chip rested, hidden away. I set the 'pop' down, pushing it toward him. My wet gloves left a pale smear on the glass. "I'm not sure why you're determined to get me drunk every time you're in town, Donald, but I'd appreciate it if you'd stop," I said, a bit of hurt coloring my voice.

He looked embarrassed, scratching at his jaw line, smoothing the transition point from feathers to bill. "I just... I thought maybe it'd relax you. You're just so..." he flapped his hands, searching for a word.

"What? Responsible? Dependable?" I said, wrinkling my nose.

"Tense?" he said lamely, sighing. He stood, gathering both our glasses up. He returned with two bottles of pop, unopened. He held one out to me, and I smiled.

"Thanks, buddy, I appreciate it. Now, you want to start another game of checkers?"

He looked at the board, his forehead wrinkling a bit. "Naaa. I'm done. Can... can we just sit? Get a fire going, maybe?" He pulled his cap off, smoothing his damp feathers. "I'm a bit cold." He plucked at the front of his jacket, the blue wool still dark with water.

"Why don't you change? I put your bag in the spare room," I said. Spare room. Ha. It was his room. His whenever he was in town. His whenever he wasn't Daisy's.

He grimaced. "I can't. Nothing worth wearing. Got caught up in a bit of an... incident with somebody during the last leave..." he trailed off, covering his embarrassment by fiddling with his cap. "Anyway, my other uniform is covered in paint, and I don't have any civvies with me."

"Well then," I said, standing up briskly, "We'll just have to find you something to wear! Come on." I motioned him toward the stairs. He blinked at me. I took a few steps. "Come on," I said, again, beckoning him.

He stood slowly, eyes a bit puzzled.

He had never been upstairs. Upstairs is where my room was, and Minnie's was room down the hall, and his room was downstairs, and that's the way it was. I think he thought I slept in Minnie's room, or she in mine, but that's not the way it worked. We were roommates. Sure, we were dating roommates, but oftentimes Minnie spent weeks at a time at her parents' house, helping out with her younger siblings. She was great with children. Me? I loved them, but they were often afraid of me. I’m not sure why.

This house was Mr. and Mrs. Maous's as well. In my head I always spelled it like that, the Greek way, the little lip pout way that Minnie had first told it to me all those years ago. The Maous's had more money than my family, but our fathers decided it would be a good match anyway, even after my accident. We've been dating ever since. Our marriage is inevitable, and so they allow me to live here until such time as Minnie is 'ready'.

God knows when that will be.

But Donald comes from a huge family. He's got at least one sister, and a pack of brothers I've never met. He once told me that a person's privacy is the most precious gift you can give them. He's never even set foot upon the stairs.

I could hear him behind me as we climb, my shoes making clunking noises against the worn wood. His footsteps were lighter, almost slapping against the floor. I wondered what the wood felt like to his webs.

I smiled over my shoulder at him. He looked terrified.

"Come on, Donald. It's only a bedroom," I said, holding open my door for him. He was frozen at the head of the staircase, one hand clutching the railing. "Look," I said, "you don't have to come in, but it'd be easier to find something that will fit you if you're in here. Unless you're afraid?"

"Me? Afraid? I'm not afraid of anything," he said, puffing up a bit.

I smiled to myself as he crossed the threshold.

My room was small, warm; the twin bed pushed over under the windows, a handmade quilt from my grandmother draped over it. I had two chairs. I only ever used one. The other held a stack of books and papers, overflow from my desk. I had my own bathroom, but even so, my room was half the size of Minnie's. In fact, the only thing that made it bearable was the huge walk in closet. I once asked Minnie why she didn't take this room, as I knew she had many more clothes than I did, and she didn't answer. It took me almost all night to get the answer out of her. Eventually she gave in, and angrily told me what I wanted to know.

She was afraid of closets. Ha. Sweet, perfect Minnie had a phobia of closets, and so she picked the room that had no closet. And I was in the doghouse for pushing so hard.

I always push hard. Never can just let something go. I like to think of it as perseverance. Minnie calls it 'having a stubborn streak wider than the Mississippi.'

I pushed the folding door open, feeling around for the light.

The light from the window dimmed as Donald moved into the closet, and I finally caught the string of the overhead light. I heard him make a small noise of surprise.

My clothes took up only a small portion of the closet, and I kept them up front, with my shoes neatly stacked in the corner. There is chest of drawers and a steamer trunk. Behind that I've got a curtain partially blocking the aisle.

I actually spend quite a bit of time in the closet; my bookcase wouldn't fit in my main room, so I put in here, along with a pile of pillows and a reading lamp. This was a sanctuary, of sorts, dark and close and hidden away. I even had a few snacks up here.

Just like a mouse to want a hole in the wall. I was acting just like I was supposed to.

I turn to say something depreciating, and find Donald is very close to me. I froze for a moment.

"What's all this?" he said softly.

"That's, uh, that's just some extra stuff," I said, blushing faintly. I hope he can't see it. I'm not sure why I was embarrassed; it's not like there was anything wrong with him seeing my bookcase, for goodness sake.

He looked at me, and then looked carefully away from the back area. "Ok. So... clothes?" he said, backing up a step.

Oh. Oh dear. Now must think he's upset me. "Donald, wait," I said, grabbing his hand. "Look," nervous laugh... "This is my little mouse house..."

I take him behind the curtain, showing him my books. I switch on the reading lamp. "I, uh, go here when I want to be alone." I said, nervously plucking at my gloves. They were still wet.

Donald looked around for a moment, and then touched my arm. "Thank you, Mickey," he said. "It looks like a very nice place. I had a place like this when I was a duckling, down under the house, with a blanket and a stack of comic books."

"You did?" I said.

"Yeah. Somewhere my brothers couldn't go. It was just my place."

I smiled at him, cheered for some reason that he understood. I noticed that he was shivering slightly, his feathers puffing up and laying back down. "Let's get you a dry shirt, huh?"

As I turned, my tail brushed his leg. I shivered, too. I realized that I left my reading light on, but I don't want to turn back to turn it off.

I found a big sweatshirt in my steamer trunk. It had a few cedar chips stuck to it. I shook it out and handed it to him, smiling. "This will fit, I think!"

He took it from me, and his feathered fingers were soft. "I, uh, will leave you to change," I said, knowing how he felt about people seeing him without his shirt.

"No. I mean... you don't have to.. You have to change too, right?" he said, his voice gruff.

"Yeah, but-" my voice is higher, getting to that squeaky range I hate so much. He stops me with a look.

"Just change. I'm fine." He turns partially away from me, laying the sweatshirt over my shoe pile. He looks for a place to put his wet hat, and I take it from him, hanging it on a hook over my laundry hamper. He hands me his scarf, and I fold it. He snorts.

"Just throw it in a pile. I'll iron it later."

I force myself to look away when he begins to unbutton his jacket.

Just beyond the curve of my ear I can see his white fingers moving against the blue of his coat. The brass buttons shine in the cold light.

I yanked the chain for the overhead light, softening the glare. He glances at me. "Uh... I prefer the reading light." I said, feeling stupid. My tail curled around one of my legs.

"That's fine." He paused, his jacket half unbuttoned. He looks at me questioningly, one eyebrow raised slightly. 

I shake myself. I toe off one shoe, wincing as my foot hits the edge of the chest of drawers. I hate my big feet.

He turned away, shrugging out of the wet jacket, pulling off his undershirt.

I stop, my hands on the buttons of my shorts. He's....

Scarred. There's a big scar running across his chest, the feathers distorted and thin. I gasped.

He looked up at me, hands automatically going to cover it. I stop him, pulling his hands away.

"Oh, Donald..." he pulled his hand away.

"I know it's ugly. You don't need to stare." He folded his arms over his chest.

"No! It's not ugly. It's just... what happened?" I couldn't help but stare. The scar looked awful, like somebody tried to cut him in half diagonally. How can he have survived that?

"What do you think, Mickey? I'm a sailor. A solder. We do occasionally fight, you know." He huffed a breath, the feathers on his head rising as he gets irate.

"It's just..." I reached out a hand, tracing my fingers over the angry flesh He jerked backwards, finding himself pressed against the wall.

"Don't touch it!" he snapped, smacking my hand away. "I don't want your pity."

"And why would I pity you?" I said, "What's to pity? You lived through a horrible wound with only a scar to show for it. How is my showing compassion for you scar pity?"

"You don't know! You don't know what kind of looks I get. God, you should have seen Dewey's face the day he walked in on me changing... I thought he was going to throw up." He reached past me to get the sweatshirt, dragging it on over his head as fast as he could. "Look, I'll just go out or something. Maybe Daisy will let me stay with her for a while. I know you won't want something so ugly living under the same roof as Minnie. Don't want to ruin your perfect little home or anything."

I grabbed his shoulder, turning him to face me. "Stop it, Donald. Just stop it. You're not making any sense. Why would I want you to go?"

He's breathing hard, that particular husky wheeze that means he's going to explode into anger, and I stared hard at him.

"Because... because..."

"Because my life is perfect? Because you think you're not perfect? Crap, Donald, you think I'm perfect?"

Silence for a long moment, and then he nodded. "Of course you are. You always have been."

I started laughing then, and I knew it was making him angry, but I couldn’t help it. "Oh, oh Donald. Me, perfect? Oh, that's rich."

I sat down before I can fall, and then keeled over, still wet gloves digging at my stomach as I laugh. He squats next to me.

"Quit laughing! You are. I swear you are."

I laughed harder.

And then... then he leaned over me, hands grabbing my shaking shoulders, and his bill is open over my mouth, and he's kissing me, he's kissing me and all I can do is kiss him back, my friend, my perfect, perfect friend, who has a huge ugly scar and a terrible temper and who hid under his house as a child to get away from everyone.

As I hide. As we hide, now, together, his mouth on mine, his sharp sliver of a tongue presses around my own, thicker one, his hand sliding up my neck to touch the thin skin of my ears. I gasp into him, and he breathes into me, and for a while we will hide, here, in my closet.

Together.


End file.
